


Everyone knows that

by knlalla



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: An important tag, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Third Person, Platonic Relationships, do you even know me?, i have never baked a pie in my life and it shows, ofc there's a happy ending, phan if you squint, phil getting sick of dan's shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 08:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15138809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knlalla/pseuds/knlalla
Summary: They fight more often than they don’t, but that’s just how relationships are. Everyone knows that.Phil bakes when he’s worried,especiallywhen he's worried about Dan. And Phil bakes quite a lot. Dan hates that he's the cause of Phil's nervous baking, that Phil's always so stressed because of him, but Dan has a hard time feelingtoobad when the outcome is a plate of warm cookies.





	Everyone knows that

They fight more often than they don’t, but that’s just how relationships _are_. Everyone knows that. 

Like with everything else, movies lie about how simple things can be. Romcoms are just a joke for Dan to laugh and poke fun at, because nobody just _lucks_ into an easy love. Love requires work: blood, sweat, and tears. Lots of tears. The goal in life, then - or in love - is to find someone that you fight with the least, or the least intensely. Or maybe it’s to find someone that makes the fights, the tears, the heartbreak and pain all worth it, he’s still not sure of the semantics. But for Dan, that person is-

“Hey Dan?” Dan sighs at the voice coming through the door. “I brought you some cookies.” Phil bakes when he’s nervous, or upset. Or happy, for that matter. He bakes quite a lot.

“Not hungry.” Dan grumbles into his pillow, though he doubts Phil even hears him. Dan barely hears himself.

“I’m coming in, yell at me if you don’t want me to,” Phil announces, oblivious to Dan’s response. He doesn’t yell, though. He could probably use some sugar anyway.

The door creaks open, followed by a soft weight settling on the bed beside him. _Snickerdoodles_ , Dan decides after a moment, when the sugary-cinnamon scent has finally made its way through the layers of duvet and pillow and into his nose.

He supposes he can sit up, at the very least, and thank Phil for bringing him a snack. It’s the polite thing to do. Dan can be polite.

“Thanks,” he mumbles once he’s removed the barrier between himself and the outside world; Phil looks _tired_ , bags under his eyes and a thin smile on his lips. Not for the first time, Dan wants to ask why. Except Phil doesn’t like to talk about those things, changing the subject whenever Dan poses too prying a question. And then Phil goes and bakes, and that’s how Dan knows something’s off. 

“Sure, I was making them already, I figured you might could use a bit of-”

“Yeah, a bit of sugar,” Dan agrees before Phil’s even finished - it’s an age-old adage between the two, Phil baking too much of a thing, making it twice as sweet as it has any right being, then shoving it under Dan’s nose and insisting he could probably use a bit more sugar.

“You don’t get enough sweetness in your life,” Phil forces out a chuckle with his words, but they strike a nerve and Dan’s hand clenches in a fist in the sheets beside him to avoid crushing the cookie he’s just grabbed. _My life is fine, thank you very much,_ he wants to shout. But he’s done that before, and he knows what’ll happen: Phil will shut down entirely, give a thin smile matching the one on his face right now, and turn the oven on. And in a couple hours, tops, he’ll have a fresh batch of ‘this one recipe I just _had_ to try out, Dan, it’s so good, here, have some!’ And Dan will, he’ll eat more than he should because it’s _Phil_ and he has a hard time saying no.

Instead of responding, Dan takes a bite of the cookie. It’s delicious, as it always is - well, as it always is _lately_ , Phil had been a pretty shit baker at first - and he lets the flavors melt over his tongue. 

“The sugar in _this one cookie_ is enough to last a lifetime, Phil,” Dan swallows, then rolls his eyes and chuckles; it’s a mostly-sincere sound that comes from his chest along with a halfhearted smile. Phil’s trying, he really is, and Dan appreciates it. But it’s not enough, not what he needs. He takes another bite anyway. The silence stretches between them as Phil grabs a cookie for himself, even though Dan’s sure he’s already sampled a few before he even came downstairs.

“Do you want to talk?” Phil asks after Dan’s had his last bite. Dan swallows thickly. _Yes,_ he thinks.

“No,” he says, because what’s there to really talk about? It’s just how these things go, and Dan knows it and Phil should know it by now as well. They’ve been living together for _years_ , this isn’t anything new. Phil just nods, like he expected it, and Dan takes another cookie. He’s not hungry, but the sweetness alone is strong enough to short-circuit his thoughts for a while.

Phil doesn’t leave, and Dan’s immensely grateful, though he won’t say so aloud. They just sit on his bed, Dan mostly covered under his duvet and trying not to spill crumbs everywhere while Phil perches on the edge of the bed, eating over the plate full of at least ten more snickerdoodles. It’s quiet, it’s peaceful, and Dan lets himself pretend for a minute that this is how relationships are meant to be: companionable, full of understanding and patience and caring. 

But it isn’t, and Dan knows this in every fiber of his being; down to his _core_ , he knows this.

He takes another cookie.

\-----------------------------------------------

“Phil, I swear to _god_ if you’re making those brownies again, I might have to kill you before they’re done,” Dan calls the moment he steps into the flat - it smells like someone’s drenched the walls in milk chocolate, an overpowering scent that floods Dan’s nostrils and makes him pause.

“Well they’re half-baked, so you’ll love them!” Phil shouts back from the kitchen, and a fond smile touches Dan’s cheeks as he shakes his head and climbs the stairs. Phil’s flushed and covered in flour, a look Dan knows all too well, but he grins brightly as he follows the source of the delicious smell into the kitchen.

“Did you at least make _dinner_ , or are we meant to have dessert first?” Dan laughs, already pulling open the fridge in search of something more substantial. Although, those brownies...he could easily eat enough for two meals and still complain that Phil hadn’t made enough.

“Oh!” Dan peeks over at Phil’s startled sound to find him staring, wide-eyed, at the clock on the stove. Which says it’s nearly eight, and also says Phil’s entirely forgotten that he can’t survive on sugar alone. No matter how hard he tries.

Dan huffs out a laugh, then reaches in the fridge again to pull out some pasta sauce. He’s pretty sure they’ve got a package of noodles lying around _somewhere_ , amongst the half-full bags of flour and sugar and other miscellaneous ingredients Phil seems to have more of than he could ever require. 

“So what kind of baking is it today?” Dan asks even though he knows, pulling open cupboards and shoving things aside. He’s _certain_ the package had been in here just yesterday, or was it the other-

“Happy!” Phil exclaims, already used to the question - it’s about the closest Dan can ever get to a real proper answer about how Phil’s feeling; sure, Dan tends to make his emotions rather apparent, but Phil’s a closed book in every sense of the word. Dan doesn’t think it’s very healthy, but he cares about Phil and tries his best to respect his boundaries. “I got the job, the one at the little shop on the corner?”

Dan turns around to beam at Phil; it’s something he’d been searching for - a proper job that involved baking - since he started messing around in the kitchen all those years ago. And Dan’s proud, really. Not to mention it’s been nearly a week since any kind of not-happy-Phil-baking. 

Dan’s grin falters for a moment - it’d been for _him_ , the last time Phil baked for any not-so-good reason. He didn’t specify exactly, just said it wasn’t happy baking and left it at that, but Dan knows he himself had been the cause. Sometimes, he wishes he didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve, project them to the world. Impose them on Phil, even when he doesn’t mean to. Phil deserves to only ever be happy, baking or not. He doesn’t deserve the added stress Dan brings to his life.

But he won’t say that, and Phil won’t say it’s Dan he sometimes worries about, so they sit in this comfortable bubble of make-believe where Dan grins and says he’s glad for Phil and Phil thanks him and then the timer beeps and Phil’s back to being distracted whilst Dan resumes his search for the noodles.

He decides it’s probably best not to mention anything about his less-than-pleasant day as they sit across the table from each other, digging into a slightly undercooked pasta that doesn’t taste fantastic but Phil insists is the best spaghetti he’s had in years. Dan laughs, tells him it’s _fettuccine_ , and pretends everything is fine. 

It _is_ fine, for a time, when he’s around Phil like this. When it’s smiles and laughter and jokes and lightness. And brownies. _If only everything were this simple._

Dan knows that’s not how it is, though.

\---------------------------------------------------------

The next time Phil bakes, Dan can tell it’s not good. To clarify, the _food_ will probably be good, a _pie_ of all things, but even from his spot on the sofa, Dan can see Phil’s face scrunched up in frustration as he stirs the filling far too vigorously for anyone’s good, especially the pie’s.

“Phil?” Dan asks, unease creeping into his chest. “How’s it going?” He always feels awkward outright _asking_ when Phil’s so obviously distressed. 

“Fine,” Phil grumbles as he drops the spoon and dips a finger in the mixture for a taste. Then he frowns, spooning more sugar into the bowl. Dan’s pretty sure it’s not ‘fine’. 

“What are you making?” He asks even though he knows, then sets his laptop aside and stands, stretching for a moment before heading into the kitchen to join Phil. Watching him bake, even when he’s stressed like this, can be cathartic. And Dan’s had...not the best day.

“Pie,” he grumbles at the blood-red mixture. “Cherry.” Another finger swipes the edge of the bowl for a taste, then he huffs out what Dan has to assume is a contented breath, because Phil turns to the pie dish and begins transferring the contents of the bowl.

“Looks like it’ll be good,” Dan sits on the stool at their counter, watching Phil; to anyone else, it might look like he’s deep in concentration, the furrowed brow and pursed lips those of a man set on a mission to create the perfect pie. But Dan knows that look, knows this isn’t happy baking, not by a long shot. 

Dan supposes he could ask if anything’s wrong, or even go straight to asking if Phil wants to talk about it, but Dan’s not even sure _he himself_ wants to have any kind of heavy discussion right now.

“Need a hand?” Sometimes, when he’s in a good mood and when Phil is as well, they’ll both work together to create something. Sometimes it helps. Hell, sometimes it’s even _fun_ , and they both end up covered in ingredients and ingesting far too much of the unbaked dough or batter, but Dan always ends up smiling, forgetting his problems for a while. He figures he could use that right about now.

Phil just glances up, evidently distracted by Dan’s words, and twists his lips. 

“Could you get the rest of the crust out?” He asks, and Dan’s quick to comply, sliding off the stool and opening the fridge door. The crust sits rolled in a perfect little spiral, almost a tortilla, and Dan wonders if it’s too early in the day to consider what they ought to have for dinner. He’s feeling tacos.

Phil takes the crust wordlessly, unrolling it and laying it across the top of the filling. Then the pie goes in the oven, Phil sets the timer, and they’re left in silence facing each other. This is the part Dan doesn’t know how to do, the space he doesn’t know how to breach. Doesn’t even know if Phil _wants_ him to breach.

So he waits, and hopes Phil will be the one to talk first. When his lips part like he’s actually about to speak, though, Dan’s admittedly shocked.

Until Phil just sighs, turns away, sets to wiping down the counter he’s left covered in flour, and the wave of hope in Dan’s chest - that maybe Phil would actually _trust_ him enough to just say what’s on his mind for once - crashes and twists and turns into something ugly and angry. 

“ _No_ , Phil.” he grabs Phil’s shoulders, spinning him around to face Dan. “You can’t just _not talk about it,_ it’s not healthy!” Dan realizes he’s sort of shouting, and maybe it’s not entirely to do with the way Phil’s acting, but he’s _pissed_ , he’s been in a bad mood all day, and right now, Phil’s the only person he has to take it out on.

Phil, for his part, just looks _shocked_ : he’s gone completely still under Dan’s hands, his mouth dropped wide and his eyes as large as the pie he’s just put in the oven. Dan’s heart skips a beat, because is he _shouting at Phil_? Does Phil baking a pie whilst grumpy really warrant Dan yelling like this? He lets his grip loosen, thinking to apologize, to run off to his room and have a proper cry by himself to get over this. Phil doesn’t deserve to have to cope with Dan.

“ _I_ can’t just not talk about it?” Phil’s eyes narrow, his voice goes low and almost _menacing_ , and Dan’s caught entirely off guard; his hands fall from Phil’s shoulders and he steps back - the man before him looks _nothing_ like Phil, lips twisting into a sort of malicious smirk. Then he’s dropping his head back, coughing out a short, bitter laugh at the ceiling. Dan takes another step back.

“Phil, I don’t-” Dan starts, but Phil’s eyes drop back to stare hard at Dan.

“No, you _don’t_ , do you? You spend all this time _shouting_ , _sobbing_ , then I have to pick up the pieces,” and isn’t that exactly what Dan’s so worried about? That he’s putting all this stress on Phil, and- “And you just, you _let it happen_ , or maybe that’s awful of me to say, but you won’t _leave_.” His tone turns from pissed to exasperated to soft and defeated, and he finally exhales and leans heavily on the counter.

Dan has no idea what to say, how to react. How to even _process_ this, because it’s the first time Phil’s ever been so open about whatever’s upsetting him, and it’s _Dan_. Just as Dan feared, _he’s_ the cause of Phil’s stress. Dan’s relationship, apparently. And _sure_ , it’s messy and full of fighting and shouting matches and tears and currently more breakups than make-ups, but that’s just how relationships _are_.

“Phil, I’m not gonna just…. _leave_ if things get hard, because what would that make me, a quitter?” It’s the same argument Dan’s used a hundred times to turn those breakups into make-ups, but it comes out hollow and empty. He ignores the other question that always hovers at the back of his mind: _where would he even go, if he left?_ And the more persistent, _who else would ever want him?_ He doesn’t say these aloud. These have a special spot inside his chest, where they can poke holes in his heart til he bleeds out from the inside, but they don’t get to see the light of day. They don’t get to poke holes in anyone else. Especially not Phil.

“Just,” Phil pauses, sighs, “forget I even asked.” Then he’s abandoning the mess at the counter, locking himself in his room. Dan suddenly feels like he’s leaking, all the things he’s kept buried when he’s with Phil squeezing out and demanding to fill the air around him, demanding to be _heard_. Except Phil’s gone, and even if he weren’t, Dan couldn’t do that to Phil. Not after what Dan just saw.

Because it’s easier to fix the disaster scene in the kitchen than the one in his chest, he wipes down the counter and puts away the remaining ingredients and waits patiently for the timer to beep, because Phil would be so utterly disappointed if a thing he’d put so much work into ended up burnt and ruined.

\-----------------------------------

Phil doesn’t bake, not for _weeks_ , and Dan can’t figure out why.

At first, he assumed it had to be the job - Phil baked almost daily at the shop, so it made sense he’d want to come home and relax. Dan thought nothing of it, not til the second week when he’d been craving some of those killer brownies and had asked Phil if he would make some.

Before - and Dan has started thinking of it as _before_ , a clear division between the time when Phil would bake with abandon and this new era of a non-baking Phil - Dan wouldn’t even bother suggesting Phil bake. It was a given, that Dan could walk out of his room or arrive home after a long day and there’d be a plate of something sweet and fresh and warm sat out on the counter. 

But this day, he’d been tired and fighting and sick of the world and he just needed a _single goddamn brownie_ to make him feel a little less like shit, and Phil had said _no_. Just ‘no’, without explanation or reason, a simple refusal that had sent Dan reeling. Actually, if Dan remembers correctly, it was more of a ‘not today, I don’t think’, because Phil’s exceptionally polite, but still. It’d been a _no_.

And Dan’s _sick of it_ ; he’s already slamming the front door behind him and marching up the stairs and he’ll be _damned_ if he doesn’t have a fucking cookie in his mouth by the time he goes to bed tonight. He’s not sure where Phil’s gone, but he heads to the kitchen, turns the oven to some temperature that seems hot enough, and pulls out the basic ingredients he thinks he’ll need. _Flour. Butter. Eggs. Sugar, lots of that._ He’s seen Phil bake enough, even helped him on occasion, surely he can manage a simple fucking cookie.

It’s not til he’s dumped an unmeasured amount of flour into a bowl and cracked two eggs that Phil appears, emerging from his room and pausing in the doorway. Dan, still fueled by rage and indignation and - he’ll admit - a feeling of betrayal, barely spares Phil a glance before dumping an obscene amount of sugar into his concoction and stirring vigorously. If Phil notices, or cares, he doesn’t say. The next time Dan looks up, it’s to the sound of the TV turning on; he finds Phil sat in the lounge, computer open in his lap. 

And if the wooden spoon hits the bowl a little too hard, makes a few unnecessarily loud sounds, well, surely Dan can’t be blamed for that. It happens.

Unfortunately, Phil seems just as disinterested as Dan had been trying to appear, and it doesn’t matter how many potentially concerning noises he makes, Phil doesn’t turn. Doesn’t ask if Dan needs help. Doesn’t even bother to see what he’s making. 

So, Dan decides, he’ll just make the best damn cookies that ever existed and eat them all for himself - he sure as _hell_ won’t be sharing a single one with Phil, not with how immature he’s acting right now, completely ignoring Dan like this. Refusing to bake even when Dan asks politely. Even though Phil _loves_ baking.

Dan stares into the bowl as he stirs, silently willing the crumbly mixture to start squishing together, because isn’t that what it’s meant to be doing by now? Then he remembers the butter, which he’d conveniently forgotten up til now, but at least it’s at room temperature, which is what it should be, Dan thinks - unless this is one of those times it calls for being fully melted, but that sounds like it’d make the dough _too_ wet, so he opts to just squish in a few soft squares of butter and hope that’s what he’s supposed to do.

And after literally _six fucking years_ , he thinks he’s just about got it mixed, but everything’s sticking to everything else and he’s _sure_ it’s not meant to be like that; he adds some flour to absorb a bit of the stickiness and stirs until the white disappears.

When a not-too-crumbly, not-too-wet mixture stares back up at him, he huffs out a satisfied breath - that’ll show Phil not to ignore him. Assuming it actually _tastes_ alright; in true Phil fashion, Dan pulls out a glob of dough and stuffs it in his mouth.

And nearly has to spit it out - literally, the only thing keeping him from doing so is the fact that Phil’s absolutely close enough to hear. Dan swallows, ignoring the lump in his throat as the flour-flavored clump slides down, leaving a slimy trail in its wake. Honestly, Dan’s not even sure how he could’ve fucked up a _cookie_ this badly, given it’s _just a fucking cookie!_ Really, it shouldn’t be so hard.

But Phil’s still in the lounge, still purposely ignoring anything going on in the kitchen, so Dan frowns down at his bowl. Sugar, he decides, is the only rational way to fix this problem. _It’s what Phil would do_. Which pisses him off and motivates him at the same time - if Phil would do it, he should do it. 

Except now his damn mixture is all crumbly again, and sort of grainy, and that _can’t_ be right, can it? Dan’s tasted many a cookie dough in his time, at the insistence of Phil Lester, and he doesn’t ever recall it having quite this texture; ultimately, he decides he probably ought to mix it more, because maybe the sugar just needs to dissolve a bit better.

So he stirs. And stirs. And stirs. And _fucking stirs_ , but he can _see_ the damn sugar grains still dotted throughout the dough, and _why won’t they fucking dissolve?_ He realizes he’s doing it again, making the loud clanking with his spoon against the bowl - and not even on purpose - but he doesn’t care. There’s no _point_ , not if it’s all gone to shit because he can’t get the _fucking_ recipe right.

Because his arm’s sore - and because he’s _really fucking sick_ of stirring - Dan drops the spoon and squeezes his eyes shut. Why he can’t get just _one damn thing_ right, a _simple fucking cookie dough_ , he’s not sure. But why not, right? Nothing in his life has ever gone his way, not once, so why would it today? 

He could _really_ use some sugar right about now

Dan coughs out a bitter laugh, because isn’t that just the funniest fucking thing he’s thought to himself all day? Ironic in the highest sense of the term: here he is, doing his damndest to make some fucking cookies because Phil’s not made anything in _three weeks_ , and he’s so damn _shitty_ at it that he can’t even be mad enough not to still wish for Phil’s baking.

“Dan? Need any help?” And of _course_ , now’s the exact time Phil decides to check in, just as Dan’s desperately wiping escaped tears from his cheeks and having another go at the dough in his bowl. From the corner of his eye, he can see that Phil’s stood up, but that’s about all; he doesn’t dare look up enough to see Phil’s expression, because then Phil would see his, and Dan isn’t at all prepared to deal with that.

“‘M fine,” Dan grumbles, hoping his vigorous stirring is enough to cover the way his voice cracks on the word. If Phil notices, he keeps any comments to himself.

“Whatcha making?” He asks instead, and Dan peeks up just enough to watch him make his way over, settle on the stool at the counter across from him. Dan keeps stirring.

“Cookies.” He finally answers, when it’s been long enough that he feels he’s getting his point across quite well. The subsequent silence stretches between them for even longer, though, and it’s getting increasingly more difficult for Dan not to properly look up, to assess Phil’s reaction.

“Are you sure?” Phil says, and Dan’s first thought is _finally_ , shortly followed by an indignant sound that he can’t quite translate to a word. He tries anyway, breaking his recently-created rule about not looking at Phil while he’s mad at him. And Phil’s just _smirking_.

“Am I- yeah I’m fucking _sure_ , Phil,” Dan grits out, “although maybe I’m just having some trouble remembering what they’re meant to taste like, given you haven’t made anything in _weeks_.” He realizes he’s shouting, properly shouting, when Phil’s eyes go wide, when his smirk falls into a mouth-half-open kind of look that sends a spike of guilt through Dan’s chest.

He’s doing it again, he realizes, only _worse_ \- Phil’s upset because of Dan, but this time it’s _directly_ Dan’s fault. Dan’s standing here, yelling at Phil, and why? Because he chose to spend his free time doing something other than baking for Dan? Because Dan’s missed the comfort of always knowing he can depend on Phil to have something sweet for him when he’s feeling like shit? Or maybe it’s just that Phil used to _care_ , his baking - Dan’s always known this - was his way to show he cared. And now it’s like Phil’s been saying, for the past three weeks, how he’s done caring. Done with Dan’s bullshit. Done with _Dan_.

He’s not sure which of those rings the most true, but they all take a stab at his heart, and he can feel himself crumpling inward; the spoon stays in the bowl when both Dan’s hands drop to grip the edge of the counter, when he hangs his head and sucks in a breath and tries desperately to hold back a fresh wave of tears. 

“ _Dan_.” When Phil says it, it sounds like a sigh. It sounds like pity and exasperation and sadness and warmth and caring and comfort all wrapped up in a single syllable, and it sends Dan toppling over the edge into whatever horrible abyss he’s been trying his best to stay out of; a sob wracks his throat, an ugly, horrible noise that sounds far too loud in the silence surrounding them.

And while Dan doesn’t believe in clairvoyance, he’d have said with absolute certainty that the next few moments wouldn’t include a hand on his shoulder, an arm wrapped around his back, a warm breath against his neck as Phil pulls Dan into his chest; none of these things looked to be in Dan’s future. But they were, they _are_ , and Dan’s not sure what to do.

He - or maybe his brain or his heart or some other organ with control over his body - decides for him, and he ends up burying his face in Phil’s shoulder, letting out more of those godawful sobs that he’d have half a mind to be embarrassed about if he weren’t so busy literally _shaking_ ; it’s as if every emotion he’d kept bottled up fizzes and pops under the surface, demanding to be let out.

And Phil - _god_ , Dan’s not sure what Phil’s thinking, but Phil doesn’t pull away, doesn’t say a word, just stands there with his arms wrapped around Dan, letting him leave wet patches on the sleeve of his shirt and holding him steady even when Dan’s knees threaten to buckle beneath him.

Dan’s not sure how much time passes, only that his breaths start to slow and his eyes have finally quit flooding and he’s at least eighty percent certain he could stand on his own if he had to, so he pulls away first. And keeps his gaze on the ground, because he’s not sure if he can handle whatever surely-judgmental look Phil’s giving him right now. Dan waits for the retreat of footsteps, for Phil to leave.

He doesn’t.

“I’m guessing probably not,” Phil’s voice stays low and soft, like he’s worried he’ll spook Dan back into the state he’d just pulled himself out of. “But do you want to talk?” Under the surface, all of Dan’s emotions surge forward, clogging up in his throat and threatening to choke him. Threatening to force another wave of tears.

“We broke up. Again.” Dan barely gets the words out, and they feel wrong and thick as they pass his lips. Like they don’t want to be out in the open, even though they’d asked, and now they’re hovering in the air around them both, waiting for Dan to open his mouth and swallow them back down. He still can’t bear to look up.

“Oh.” Phil says, and now Dan _definitely_ can’t look up - he can see it in his head, Phil rolling his eyes, unamused by Dan’s relationship issues and ready to tell him off like he had the last time.

“It was me this time, I did it.” Dan rushes to add, filling the space because it feels too open and empty. But Phil had said, all those weeks ago, that Dan should just _leave_ , and...he didn’t want to admit it at the time, but maybe Phil had been right.

So he’d thought long and hard and had a good proper cry at least a few times, and it took seven shouting matches and only _one_ instance of angry sex to finally convince him that whatever they had, it wasn’t working. It wouldn’t work, no matter how much Dan threw himself at it, no matter how many times he told himself it was just a matter of trying _harder_ , because relationships just aren’t easy, everyone knows that.

“Okay.” Phil says, caution heavy in his tone. Dan peeks up, just enough to find Phil’s eyes narrowed slightly, just watching. Waiting. Dan takes a breath, slow and shaky, but he needs it. What he’s about to do won’t be easy.

“I think it’s for good, this time.” He admits, letting the weight of the words settle in his ears; they don’t sound fake or off-kilter or wrong, they sound solid and, okay, maybe they fill Dan with a sense of relief, but that relationship was _exhausting_. Dan had put in so much, always promising himself it’d get better, easier, he’d be _happier_ if he just worked a little harder, just tried a little more. So fuck anyone who says otherwise, he can be relieved if he wants. He _deserves_ relief.

“ _Oh_.” Phil says it differently this time - it’s light and startled and Dan’s not sure what to think about it except it makes his heart feel the same way, so maybe it isn’t a bad thing. 

Dan decides it _definitely_ can’t be a bad thing when Phil’s pulling him into his chest again, into a tight hug that squashes Dan’s lungs in the best way because it makes him huff out a laugh; he’s quick to squeeze Phil back, if only for revenge, but then Phil’s giggling as well. 

“I’m proud of you.” Phil says it low and soft and right next to Dan’s ear, and it sends a shock of pride, of _elation_ through his entire body; his cheeks hurt from grinning by the time they pull apart, and Dan remembers to offer an equally soft thanks. He doesn’t think it does Phil’s words justice or even _begin_ to express how much they meant to Dan, but it’s a start.

After a long moment of silence, Dan clears his throat.

“D’you think you could maybe, uh, help me out with this? Think I’ve botched it,” Dan turns to point at the lump of dough in the bowl, twisting his lips at the absolute mess he’s made. “If you want!” He nearly shouts, whirling back only to find Phil smiling, wide and bright.

“I’d love to.” Those words are the first of many Phil has for Dan in the next ten minutes as he assesses the damage to the dough, as Dan apologizes for wasting ingredients and Phil reassures him that it’s not the end of the world, they can fix it together, and could Dan please bring him some vanilla extract from the cupboard? Dan curses under his breath, but the smile never really leaves his face.

Phil’s tongue pokes through his teeth the way it always does when he’s focused, and Dan wonders if maybe he’s the only one who _didn’t_ know that relationships can look like an easy Sunday morning stuffed full of too many homemade pancakes or a midnight snack of Dan’s favorite brownies or a plate of cookies that somehow appears exactly when Dan needs it most. 

“I can’t believe you forgot the _vanilla_ , Dan,” Phil teases, bumping his hip into Dan’s. Dan scoffs, feigning offense, but still leans into Phil, watching him stir the salvaged cookie dough. “It’s like, the most important ingredient to every cookie recipe _ever_.” Dan thinks Phil might be exaggerating a bit, but he doesn’t mind. Phil’s grinning and Dan’s grinning and he likes this lightness in his chest. Phil nudges his arm, though, apparently dissatisfied by Dan’s lack of response.

“I mean, you _need_ the vanilla, Dan. Everyone knows that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies! If you'd like, feel free to give it a cheeky [reblog on tumblr](https://knlalla.tumblr.com/post/175472253862/everyone-knows-that)


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